a poem for today

Dollars damned him

Hell, the plain old wood in the pen has a poverty sort of
eventual creak to it; logging into strains of northness.
Remember that everything vibrates in the air, near Pittsfield.
Man they even bust up town hall w line drives.
Anyway after purple eve: unaccountable masses of
nightfall & shades & shadows. The product’s a hash.

Malicious devils blow up a cup of despair to go round.
Even a few short advances fritter behind.
Light commercial devils cant w reconciled malice,
voices drop lifted alters crash dismonody shore dust
intro to anywhere: some americas love bad writing.
Lash vast coil origin wildernessing unfathom
linked maybe to flit energy to hate eyes that see saw sing.
Even in clogged light blood;kept writing. Amazing.

[by Mark Prejsnar]

Herman Melville was born August 1, 1819


“Dollars damn me and the malicious devil is forever grinning in on me, holding the door ajar. What i feel most moved to write, that is banned, that will not pay. Yet, altogether, write the other way I cannot. So the product is final hash, and all my books are botches.”

--Herman Melville to Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1851

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